


Time that Old Justice

by devilinthedetails



Category: PIERCE Tamora - Works, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Authority, Child Abuse, Disgrace, Duty, Exemptions, Fairness, Gen, Honor, Injustice, Justice, Kidnapping, Knight & Squire, Politics, happiness, journeys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-07-10 16:58:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15953630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilinthedetails/pseuds/devilinthedetails
Summary: From Legann to Corus, Roald and Lord Imrah journey in search of justice. Set during the end of Page.





	1. Jealousy and Lasting Happiness

"Time is the old justice that examines all such offenders, and let time try."--William Shakespeare

Jealousy and Lasting Happiness

“You’re certain, lad, that you don’t wish to accompany me to Corus?” Lord Imrah asked Alan as Alan and Roald helped pack saddlebags for Lord Imrah’s journey north to the capital where there would be a great congress of nobles this spring. A great congress of nobles being exactly the description of an event the heir to the throne was expected to attend to hone his understanding of politics and diplomacy, it went without questioning that Roald would join his knightmaster on the road north and then at the congress itself. 

Of course, at the congress it went equally without questioning that he wouldn’t be permitted to speak. He would be required to listen with rapt attention for hours while the nobles debated the issues that would determine the realm’s future. Only when the session concluded for the day would Roald be allowed to pose questions about the proceedings to his parents or his knightmaster. He could witness the power that governed the country, but, even as the Crown Prince, he had no role in shaping it. That, like so much else, had to wait until he was older. 

“I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life, sir.” Alan wrinkled his nose as he struggled to stuff a shirt into Lord Imrah’s luggage. “The nobles there will only mock me because my father was a thief, my mother is a knight, and I’m not what they think of as a proper page being in service with you instead of at the palace.” 

“You have to face the more vicious nobles sometime, Alan.” Roald figured that if he couldn’t escape court cruelties, nobody else of noble birth could. Even as a small boy, he had learned to quietly but deftly defend his parents’ progressive policies or to politely acknowledge a grievance when it was irately presented to him though he had done nothing to cause it. He liked to imagine these early experiences had strengthened his resolve to avoid offending anyone. Life was difficult enough healing the injuries perpetrated by others without inflicting wounds of his own, after all. “You can’t hide from court forever.” 

“Watch me.” Alan’s chin lifted and his green eyes blazed in challenge. “I’m very good at hiding. It’s in my blood, inherited from my dear old da.” 

Before Roald could respond to this ridiculous stubbornness, Lord Imrah held up a finger to quell the burgeoning argument. “Alan isn’t under your authority, Roald. He’s my charge as you are, and I’ve given him leave to remain here while I’m at court. You needn’t instruct him further on his duties.” 

“Yes, my lord.” Roald ducked his head at the mild correction but could still glimpse out of the corner of his eye Alan sticking a triumphant tongue out at him. If Lord Imrah wasn’t watching like a hawk and he wasn’t a prince meant to be dignified in the face of every insult, he would have hurled the socks he had just finished rolling at Alan’s ear. Instead he settled for tucking the socks into a bag and strapping it shut, cheeks flaming. 

“Don’t look so smug, Alan.” Lord Imrah fixed a stern gaze on Alan, who rapidly retracted his tongue into his mouth. “Your instructions are to study hard the lessons I left you and to diligently complete every day the drills I showed you. When I return from court, I expect to see substantial progress in your lessons and training as well as the hear from my wife that you’ve been the personification of obedience to her. Otherwise I’ll have to bring you to court if I can’t trust you to follow my orders and keep your nose out of trouble when I’m not hovering above you like an eagle.”

“I’ll obey you when you’re gone just as I do when you’re here, sir.” Alan, all eagerness, assured Lord Imrah. “I promise in the names of Mithros and the Goddess.” 

Lord Imrah arched a considering eyebrow at Alan but in the end seemed to decide that Alan was acceptably serious if he was invoking two of the mightiest deities. 

“Very well then. Follow your nose to the kitchen”—Lord Imrah tweaked Alan’s as he nodded toward the door—“and carry us up a snack. We’ve earned a treat after all this packing.” 

“On the double, sir.” Alan grinned, and, as if food were a magnet attracting him to the kitchen, bolted from the room. 

“Look at me, lad.” Lord Imrah reached out to tilt Roald’s chin upward, and it was only then that Roald realized it was still lowered. “My reprimand wasn’t that harsh.” 

“No, sir.” Roald bit his lip. Lord Imrah’s reprimands never were harsh—just stern—but Roald was at an awkward age where he was unsure enough of himself and his place in the world beyond the title of prince (which still had a meaning he didn’t fully grasp) that any reprimand sounded harsh as a slap to his ears. It would have been utter weakness to admit that to his knightmaster, however, so he kept the words wrapped tightly inside himself. 

“I hope you aren’t jealous of Alan being permitted to stay here.” Lord Imrah’s arm draping over Roald’s shoulder took any sting of accusation out of his comment. 

“I don’t believe I am, sir.” Roald hesitated, contemplating whether his reluctance to hear the endless arguments of nobles at the great congress constituted an envy that he had unjustly directed toward Alan. “It would, of course, be wrong of me to be jealous of him.” 

“Yes, it would.” Lord Imrah paused as if gathering thoughts, and Roald resigned himself to a lecture on the corrosive evils of envy that, as the Mithran priests said in their homilies, destroyed the one who harbored it more than its target. “We all must walk different paths, Roald, and take pleasure in what joys we discover on our own journey without resenting those others find on theirs. That’s the path to lasting happiness as far as I see it.” 

“Yes, my lord.” Roald observed inwardly that if that was the extent of Lord Imrah’s reproach it wasn’t such a terrible one. 

“When we get to Corus, your parents will be happy to see you not to mention your friends among the pages.” Lord Imrah clapped Roald on the shoulder, and Roald broke into a smile, suddenly reminded of the people he cared about that he would be seeing in Corus. If a great congress was the price of reunion with his family and friends, he would pay it without complaint. 

“My friends among the fourth-years will definitely enjoy seeing me again when I ask if they’re ready for the big examinations.” Roald found that he was looking forward to posing such a faux solicitous question to his friends. It was just like Lord Imrah to transform his grim acceptance of his duties to a genuine excitement—to put a positive twist on any journey. 

“About as much as they will the big examinations.” Lord Imrah chuckled, and Roald took pleasure in amusing his knightmaster as his knightmaster had him.


	2. The Tyrant at the Wayside Inn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Child abuse depicted and referenced in this chapter. Please exercise caution in reading if this may be triggering for you.

The Tyrant at the Wayside Inn

The next morning Roald rose before the sun. By dawn he had mounted Shadow and was riding out of Legann castle alongside Lord Imrah with a squadron of guards for protection against any bandits bold enough to assail them on the road to Corus. Alan, Lady Marielle, and Lord Imrah’s younger daughter Julienne (the elder one, Mattie, being away the convent to learn a lady’s manners) waved farewell from the gates. 

Roald was quiet as they climbed along the bluffs, and the sun continued its journey across the cloudless blue plain of the sky. When the sun was at its blazing zenith, they sat on boulders beside a babbling brook and ate lunch. The dried beef and nuts they had packed were supplemented nicely with fresh berries plucked from bushes along the stream. They sipped at their waters and then replenished their canteens in the creek. 

Finally awake and refreshed by the meal, Roald joined the guards and Lord Imrah in singing Legann ballads, which inevitably were variations of themes of slaying sea monsters, defeating pirates, and returning home after long voyages. 

The sun was starting to sink toward the ground when the coastal bluffs began to flatten into golden wheat fields that stretched as far as Roald could see. At the first town they came to, Lord Imrah called a halt at the inn. 

As soon as they reached the inn’s stables, a scarecrow thin boy with plum bruises under his eyes raced forward to relieve them of their horses. Their mounts cared for, they stepped into the inn to be greeted by the proprietor, a burly man with scarlet blotches on his cheeks that suggested the smile he bestowed upon them as they entered was not as natural a mode of expression for him as full-throated bellows. 

“I can have a large room prepared for you, my lord, and a smaller room readied for your squire, but your guards will have to share.” The innkeeper bowed to Lord Imrah and then beckoned to a maid to carry their bags up to their rooms. Gesturing at the tavern that filled most of the first floor, he added, “If you choose any table, my serving boy will attend to you at once.” 

The innkeeper’s claim was quickly proven true for as soon as they were seated, a boy with wide hazel eyes scurried over to them. He kept his head down as if fearing a blow when Lord Imrah placed an order for lamb-and-vegetable pie, a tureen of pea soup, a pitcher of ale for the guards, a flagon of mead for himself, and a tankard of cider for Roald. 

Though it was ill-bred to stare, Roald couldn’t stop gawking at the necklace and bracelets of bruises encircling the boy’s scrawny throat and wrists until the boy disappeared to deliver their order to the kitchen. 

“The boy had bruises all along his neck and wrists.” Roald’s forehead knotted as he gazed at the kitchen door through which the boy had vanished. 

“Working in a tavern is a rough business.” Lord Imrah’s sigh sounded weary after a day’s jolting travel. “Patrons can have hot tempers fueled by ale and cool them by beating on servant boys and girls. It’s not right but it’s not unusual, I’m afraid.” 

The boy, swift and silent, had reappeared with their drinks. Roald waited to speak until he had dispensed them and bustled off to attend to a man by the fire who was calling for a refill of mead though if his jerky gesticulations and irascible demeanor were any indication, he didn’t need any more alcohol. 

“The stable boy had bruises under his eyes,” remarked Roald once the serving boy was out of earshot. 

“Perhaps he was kicked by a foul-tempered mount.” Lord Imrah sipped at his mead. “Maybe the two boys brawled as lads do.” 

“You don’t believe that, sir.” Roald frowned as he rubbed a finger along the rim of his tankard rather than drink his cider. “You’re saying that to quiet me, but you don’t truly believe it, do you?” 

“I believe that you’re being saucy, squire.” Lord Imrah arched an admonishing eyebrow over the brim of his flagon. 

“I’m sorry, my lord.” Roald apologized reflexively though he wasn’t feeling particularly apologetic. He knew that he would have to at least pretend to play the penitent to draw any meaningful answers from Lord Imrah. 

“What’s this swill?” barked the man by the fireside, spitting a mouthful of mead onto the rushes covering the flagstones. He backhanded the serving boy with enough force that the boy almost stumbled into the roaring hearth flames. “Why give me mead when I called for ale, whelp?” 

Roald wanted to stand and shout that the man had called for mead in a voice loud enough to awaken the dead, but his lips were too dry and his knees too shaky. He could only gape in horror as the innkeeper hurried over to the fireside, and, casting a looming shadow that made Roald’s spine shiver, berated the boy. 

“You listen to customers,” the innkeeper snarled, emphasizing every word with a box to the boy’s ears, “or I’ll smack out whatever is blocking your ears, you hear?” 

“Yes, sir.” The boy was sniveling into a sleeve, and the man who had called for mead was watching the scene with such sickening satisfaction that a revolted Roald’s stomach churned. 

“The man asked for mead, my lord.” Roald was desperate for Lord Imrah to intervene. “I heard him.” 

“We all did.” Lord Imrah’s fists were clenched but he wasn’t lifting a finger to save the hapless boy. “A man had a right to discipline his servants as he deems fit, Roald. We ought not to interfere with such private affairs.” 

“With respect, it’s not a private affair, sir, when an entire inn can witness it.” Roald shook his head, struggling to speak through numb lips. He couldn’t believe that Lord Imrah would be so indifferent to the boy’s plight after his own history with a drunkard knightmaster who thrashed him for no reason. “More than that, it’s an injustice for a man to beat a servant without cause.” 

“We can’t right every wrong in the realm, lad.” Lord Imrah was barely audible over the slapping strap the innkeeper had snatched from the mantelpiece and was now using to wallop the boy’s thighs and backside. 

“Couldn’t we at least right the wrongs we see, my lord?” Roald ached to bury his head in his hands so he wouldn’t have to watch the beating but if he wasn’t brave enough to stop it, he was determined to have the courage not to hide his face from it. 

“Such wrongs are righted with subtlety.” Lord Imrah tapped Roald’s wrist gently. “Not with standing up and shouting across a crowded tavern like an angry drunkard.” 

The innkeeper had finally finished whacking the serving boy, and Roald was too bone-tired to think about eating when he knew he would be sneaking out of his bed at midnight to heal the serving boy’s bruises. 

Shoving his chair away from the table with a scrape, he rose and bowed to his knightmaster. “I’m not hungry, my lord, and I’m exhausted from our journey. Might I be excused to retire for the evening?” 

“You’ve my leave to go, Roald.” Lord Imrah waved a hand in dismissal. “Sleep well.” 

“Thank you, sir.” All courtesy, Roald inclined his head although he was seething inside at the flagrant injustice of a world where boys were beaten without cause while knights and princes were helpless to defend them. He thought he would probably have nightmares of the innkeeper’s strap searing into his own flesh. After all, it was only by the grace of the gods that he had been born a prince in a palace and not a serving boy under the thumb of a tyrant at a wayside inn.


	3. Midnight Magic

Midnight Magic

“Excuse me, miss.” Roald had climbed the staircase up to the inn’s second floor, where the guest rooms were located, and had spotted a maid busily dusting the sconces that lined the hallway. “Might I ask you a question?” 

“Master Harris will whip the clothes off my back if he catches me talking to a guest again”—the maid remained focused on her dusting—“but your room is the third on your right.” 

“Thank you.” It hadn’t occurred to Roald until that moment that he didn’t know which room he had been assigned by the innkeeper. Recovering from that embarrassment, he went on, “That wasn’t what I to ask you, though. I was wondering where the servant boy downstairs sleeps.” 

“In the stables.” The maid spun away from her dusting long enough to stare at Roald in surprise. Obviously that wasn’t a frequent question from the inn’s patrons. 

Before she could dwell on its peculiarity, Roald fished a couple of coins from his purse and offered them to her. “For your trouble.” 

“It was no trouble.” The maid’s gaze glittered like gold in the sunshine, assuring him that his generosity had distracted her from his unusual inquiry. 

Nodding to her, he continued down the corridor to the guest room she had said was his, where he unpacked his nightshirt from his satchel and prepared for bed. He allowed himself to doze until around midnight when he finally heard the inn quiet around him. 

Lightly as a cat, he tiptoed out of his room, shutting the door silently as he could in his wake, and crept down the hallway, praying to any listening deity that he wouldn’t disturb any of the inn’s other occupants. He made his way down the stairs as swiftly as he dared to without creaking the boards and escaped outside to the stables. 

The horses whinnied when he entered, and the boy who had served him dinner, who was curled on a hay bale with no blanket, stirred out of his sleep with an alarmed jerk. 

“Don’t make a noise.” Roald lifted a warning finger to his lips. “I’ve come to heal you.” 

“I haven’t seen a healer since Ma and Da died when Master Harris bought my indenture.” The boy shot Roald a skeptical look, and Roald felt a surge of fury for the innkeeper who had brutalized the boy and never tended his injuries or sicknesses. Of course, if a healer had seen the bruises on this boy, the healer would have been obliged by the laws of the healing profession to report the abuse to a magistrate, who, in turn, would be duty-bound to indenture the boy to another household. 

“Then your master shirked his responsibilities to you.” Roald fought to keep the sharpness out of his tone. After all, his rage was all for the abusive innkeeper and the many guests who must have seen and heard the mistreatment and never chosen to lift a hand to help or raised a voice in protest. They had accepted the abuse, allowing it to continue for a period of time Roald didn’t want to contemplate. It was just the innkeeper who had failed the boy. It was society as a whole being unpardonably negligent. Even Roald had been lax in his duty to stand up for the defenseless at dinner. “I’m a healer, and I’ll do my duty by you even if your master won’t.” 

“I haven’t seen a healer in so long I forget what I’m supposed to do.” The boy nipped nervously at his lower lip. 

“Just don’t squirm, and I’ll do the rest.” Roald laid a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder, and, when he felt the tension coiled there unwind, streamed his magic into the boy. He began to feel hunger pangs as he healed the countless bruises on the boy’s neck and wrists, but he pushed through his hunger pains to erase into nothingness the welts on the boy’s thighs and buttocks. 

The boy must have been so accustomed to hurting that he didn’t whimper or fidget as Roald healed him. Perhaps that permitted Roald to pour so much of his Gift into his patient that he was left with a stabbing headache after working his magic. 

“Sleep well.” Roald removed his palm from the boy’s shoulder and moved toward the stable door to take his leave, craving dried meat from his satchel and then rest that might banish his headache. 

“I will now that I don’t have to do it on my stomach.” The boy gave a tentative grin as if still worried about when the next blow would inevitably fall. 

Wishing that he could have the innkeeper stripped and flogged bloody in the village square, Roald departed the stables and returned to the inn. Maybe it was the visions of gory vengeance masquerading as justice swimming in his eyes that prevented him from seeing Lord Imrah lurking in the shadows at the top of the stairs until he reached the second floor landing and almost toppled down the steps in alarm. 

“My lord.” Roald managed an awkward bow when he regained enough of his wits to make an attempt at politeness. “Your pardon. I wasn’t expecting to meet you at this late hour.” 

“I might say the same to you, Roald.” Lord Imrah folded his arms across his chest, and Roald had the discomfiting realization that his final sentence might not have been the wisest one to utter if he intended to charm his way out of questioning about his nocturnal activity this evening. “If you were any other squire, I’d suspect that you were engaged in some unspeakable debauchery.” 

“I swear I wasn’t, sir.” Roald met his knightmaster’s hawk eyes with unblinking earnestness. “Mithros strike me down here if I lie.” 

“Go to bed, squire.” Sighing, Lord Imrah pointed at the door to Roald’s room. “We leave at daybreak, and you’ll have nobody but yourself to blame if you feel like falling asleep on your horse tomorrow morning.” 

“Yes, sir.” Roald ducked his head, acknowledging the order that mercifully granted him permission to sneak into his room where he could eat and then sleep but as he started to step past Lord Imrah, his knightmaster grasped his elbow to halt him. 

“I know you well enough to understand that you’d never engage in debauchery, but not everyone does,” Lord Imrah said as Roald’s forehead furrowed in confusion at being detained. “Roaming around in the middle of the night is how rumors that could sully a prince’s reputation begin.” 

“I take your meaning, my lord.” Roald’s cheeks burned. He had, after all, been taught since infancy that no whiff of scandal should be allowed to attach itself to him as Crown Prince of the realm. 

“Good.” Lord Imrah released him, letting him retreat to his room. “Then I don’t expect to have this conversation with you ever again.” 

“Yes, sir,” Roald answered as he disappeared behind his door, noting inwardly that his brain would have needed to be replaced with a cabbage for him to dream of saying anything else when Lord Imrah was at his sternest.


	4. Raise a Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for child abuse in this chapter. Please don't read if it might trigger you.

Raise a Hand

“Curse it, boy!” The innkeeper delivered a vicious cuff to the lad Roald had healed last night who was already sporting a bloody lip from another one of the innkeeper’s stinging slaps. By nightfall, Roald didn’t doubt that the boy would be covered with bruises and welts as if he had never been healed. Roald had never longed to punch anyone—even Joren of Stone Mountain—on the nose more. “Don’t dally. Our guests want to leave at dawn, not noon.” 

When the innkeeper had spotted Lord Imrah, Roald, and their accompanying soldiers making the bleary-eyed trip downstairs with their luggage, he had barked at his boy to load their horses. Leaving Roald to assist in this process, Lord Imrah and the guards had disappeared into the kitchen to purchase more food for their journey. 

As far as Roald was concerned, the boy was moving at a steady clip especially considering that it wasn’t yet daybreak, but the innkeeper had to snarl at something while he supervised. He was that much of tyrant. 

“Stop beating the boy.” Roald strove to speak with the same cold command he had heard his father use to freeze people in their tracks. 

“Who are you to stop me?” The innkeeper turned his glare on Roald, waving a menacing fist. “Your knightmaster should beat you for daring to address an adult so boldly. I see he’s not around to take care of that duty, which leaves it to me”— 

“I am Roald of Conte, Crown Prince of Tortall.” Roald carved each word in ice as he clutched at his sword hilt with ivory knuckles. He could feel a righteousness and desire for justice so fierce it was almost cruel cut through him like a storm sweeping through a wheat field. Aching for any excuse to lob off a limb from this despicable innkeeper who had the audacity to however unwittingly threaten royalty. “It’s against the law for you to lay a hand on me without the king or queen’s permission. Touch me, and I’ll take your hand.” 

The innkeeper, still steaming with fury, looked as if he very much doubted that Roald was who he claimed to be, and Roald, adrenaline pounding in his veins like a war drum, wished that the man would risk an attack that would provide a reason for Roald to remove his hand. The innkeeper would find it much more difficult to beat his servants without his hand…In Roald’s opinion, he deserved to lose that limb more than any thief did. 

Unfortunately, Lord Imrah, who had appeared in the doorway flanked by the squad of soldiers, shouted, “The horses are packed. We leave now, Roald.” 

Scowling, Roald glanced at their mounts and saw that the innkeeper’s boy had finished securing their bags to their mounts while Roald confronted the boy’s master about the blatantly unjustifiable beatings. His glower remained in place as he settled into his saddle and rode onto the dusty road at his knightmaster’s side. 

“Toss that scowl into a ditch, squire.” Lord Imrah obviously wasn’t in the mood for any glowering from Roald when the sun was only starting to rise, staining the fields scarlet. “Before I make you turn around and apologize to the innkeeper.” 

“I won’t apologize to the likes of him.” Roald injected the last three words with all his searing scorn for the innkeeper as he shook his head stubbornly. He would bite out his tongue like a tortured prisoner in a dungeon before he apologized to a brute like the innkeeper. It would be the definition of unfairness for him to do so. 

“A prince who won’t apologize to a peasant is on the path to tyranny, Roald.” Lord Imrah’s tone was quiet but he was staring at Roald as if he had never seen him before and the sight was ugly as only evil could be. 

“It’s not because he’s a peasant that I won’t apologize to him, my lord.” Roald was hurt and miffed at the same time that his knightmaster would even for an instant believe he was such an insufferable snob. “It’s because he’s a vile beast that I won’t apologize to him.” 

“You meant it when you threatened to chop off his hand, didn’t you?” Lord Imrah’s forehead tied in a knot. 

“Of course.” Roald was wrong-footed by the question. “Papa says I should never issue a threat I can’t bear to carry out, sir.” 

“Your father is wise.” Lord Imrah paused before continuing, “I appreciate your passionate commitment to justice, squire, but you must be wary of excesses that could descend into cruelty when enforcing the law to the letter. Removing a man’s hand for insulting you might be deemed excessive no matter how justified in the law.” 

“I didn’t make the threat because he had insulted me, my lord.” Roald was quick to explain. “I made the threat because if he didn’t have a hand, he’d find it harder to beat his servants, wouldn’t he?” 

“He would continue to torment them in other ways. His kind are devious in their tyrannies, and no punishment can stop them for long since nothing can alter their fundamentally wicked natures.” Lord Imrah sighed, tapping his saddle horn as he watched the grain ripple in the wind that was rising with the sun. “No, the best way to handle the innkeeper’s brutish sort is with the subtlety you did last night when you slipped out to heal the innkeeper’s boy.” 

“You knew I healed him, sir?” Roald’s eyes widened in surprise at his knightmaster’s final statement. 

“I suspected that’s what you were returning from when I caught you on the staircase last night.” Lord Imrah gave a wry smile. “Then the boy confirmed it when I visited him in the stables.” 

“You visited him in the stables too, my lord?” Roald’s mouth was gaping but he was too shocked to care how uncouth he seemed as a result. Let any passing strangers assume he had been reared by cows in a barn if they must. 

“Absolutely.” Lord Imrah reached out to ruffle Roald’s hair. “I gave him enough money that he’ll be able to buy his freedom with the local magistrate and then seek employment at another inn with a less abusive owner. Most of the time, it’s better to save people with your wits instead of your sword. Thrusting your sword about may seem heroic but it isn’t often the most effective method of rescuing people if that’s your goal. Remember that.” 

“Yes, sir.” Roald ducked his head, abruptly ashamed of his behavior before he left the inn. “I suppose I did look ridiculous when I was seized by my passion, didn’t I?” 

“Not ridiculous.” Lord Imrah shook his head. “You looked like a budding tyrant.” 

“I didn’t mean to act the tyrant.” Abashed, Roald bit his lip, wondering whether most tyrants wanted to act like tyrants or if it happened as a mistake when they were consumed by their passions, oblivious to the harm they inflicted until after the irreparable damage was done. “I only tried to stand up for what I thought was right, my lord.” 

Lord Imrah didn’t reply, and, since Roald didn’t want to contemplate whether most tyrants were only devoted to doing what they regarded as right at all costs, he focused on the clopping of their horses as they trotted down the road to Corus.


	5. A Better Squire

A Better Squire 

It was mid-afternoon three days later when Roald, Lord Imrah, and their squad of guards reached the Royal Palace. After handing their mounts over to stable boys, Lord Imrah and Roald had just enough time to change their clothes and wipe the dust of the road off their faces in Lord Imrah’s quarters before they accepted a royal invitation to join the king and queen for tea. Meanwhile the guards had disappeared to the baths for a leisurely soak to wash off the dirt and sweat of traveling. Although he was eager to see his parents after a long separation, Roald rather envied the guards these relaxing baths. The baths would have been a soothing refuge after the bustle of his journey, yet the baths were a luxury he wasn’t permitted to indulge in until he had visited his parents. After all, a prince was expected to greet his parents as soon as he was presentable, but sometimes Roald would have appreciated less rush. 

His parents, as if predicting his trepidation, had laid the table with his favorite pickled cherries and sugared almonds alongside a steaming pot of tea with a mint fragrance that suggested it had come all the way from the Copper Isles, a journey that made his pale in comparison. 

“Your Majesties.” Roald bowed to first his father, then his mother. Seeing Lianne standing silently to their father’s left, while Vania wriggled at their mother’s left hand, he inclined his head in a courteous greeting to each of them in turn. “Lianne. Vania.” 

Beside him, his knightmaster had also bowed and offered his respects to the king, the queen, and the princesses in order of rank. 

“Lord Imrah.” Papa stepped forward to welcome Lord Imrah. “It’s a pleasure to see you again. I’m eager to hear your thoughts throughout this council, but I hope this tea can be devoted to pleasure more than politics.” 

While Papa greeted Lord Imrah, Mama embraced Roald, murmuring in his ear how much she had missed him and how happy she was to see him. He suspected that she kept her tone down to avoid embarrassing him. 

“I’m happy to see you too, Mama.” Not caring about embarrassment where his mother was concerned, Roald kissed her cheek. “I’ve missed you.” 

When Mama slipped seamlessly into welcoming Lord Imrah, Roald found himself facing his father. 

“Son.” Papa squeezed Roald’s shoulder, and Roald was stunned to discover that he was within two inches of his father’s height. He hadn’t realized how much he had grown until he saw his size next to the giant of his childhood. “Welcome home.” 

“Thank you.” It took a moment for Roald to recover from his surprise enough to add, “It’s good to be home.” 

At that point, Vania became so impatient with propriety that she flew forward to hug Roald without a thought for decorum. Slightly more sedately, Lianne joined the embrace. Once the hugs and kisses were done, everyone settled into sofas around the tea table after Roald’s parents claimed their seats. 

Roald had just eaten a handful of sugared almonds when Mama made the comment every squire dreaded hearing from his mother. “I hope you’re being good for your knightmaster, son.” 

His cheeks flaming as he recalled with chagrin his flash of temper at the inn mere days ago, Roald chewed on his nuts, the crunch between his teeth comforting as he devised an appropriately diplomatic and dutiful reply. “I’m trying to be as good as I can, Mama, of course.” 

“You’re trying to be as good as you can.” Papa shook his head sharply as if to banish a fly. Papa was often impatient with what he termed as Roald’s evasiveness, which he insisted was unbecoming of a prince, who shouldn’t flinch from the truth. Roald considered his answers more calculated to be inoffensive than to be deceptive, but it would have been disrespectful to argue, so he accepted the reprimands in as humble quiet as he could. “What does that even mean, Roald?” 

Roald ducked his head and–uncomfortably aware that he was again engaging in what his father would doubtlessly deem as evasiveness–debated how to respond. To his eternal gratitude, Lord Imrah chose to intervene on his behalf, remarking, “Roald, as ever, is being too modest, Your Majesty. A knightmaster couldn’t ask for a better squire than Roald is to me.”

Roald was so abashed by this statement that seemed especially untrue in light of his recent shame at the inn that his cheeks burned bright as beacons. He wondered if his expression betrayed Lord Imrah’s lie but Papa’s faint frown softened into a smile as he said, “That’s all right then. You shouldn’t be so modest, Roald, that you mislead your parents into believing you were misbehaving.” 

“Yes, Papa.” Roald would have agreed to anything if it would end the awkward interval. 

Perhaps Vania sensed his mute scream for salvation for she began to badger him and Lord Imrah with a hundred questions about Port Legann, a city she had never seen. When Vania’s stream of questions dried, everybody’s teacups were emptied, so Lord Imrah and Roald were free to take their leave without violating any rule of etiquette. 

After he and his knightmaster had made their farewells and were retiring to Lord Imrah’s quarters for brief rests before dinner, Roald expressed the gratitude that had grown inside him ever since his knightmaster interceded on his behalf with his father. “Thank you, my lord, for your kindness in lying on my behalf to my father.” 

“You’re always welcome for any kindness you receive from me, lad.” The crags in Lord Imrah’s face leveled with affection. “However, you can be assured that I didn’t dishonor myself by lying to His Majesty.”

“Of course not, sir.” Roald was quick to clarify that he had intended no insult to his knightmaster’s integrity. “I didn’t mean to impugn your honor. I only wanted to thank you for exaggerating the truth in my favor.” 

“You haven’t impugned my honor.” The crags of Lord Imrah’s face cracked into a grin. “Nor have I lied in your favor. You see, I meant every word I said about a knightmaster not being able to ask for a better squire than you, Roald.” 

Shocked into speechlessness, Roald bowed more deeply than he ever had since entering Lord Imrah’s service. At last he forced words to stumble from his gaping mouth. “My words can’t thank you enough, my lord, but how can you say that after my disgraceful behavior at the inn?” 

“I know you well enough to understand that even your most disgraceful behavior is motivated by a righteous desire for justice.” Lord Imrah patted Roald on the back. “That is why I couldn’t ask for a better squire.” 

“I still think that I can be a better squire to you, sir.” Roald’s chin lifted in determination to prove ever more worthy of the loyalty Lord Imrah showed him. “I pledge to always try to be a better squire to you.” 

“I pledge to always try to be a better knightmaster to you.” Lord Imrah ruined the solemnity of the oath by ruffling Roald’s hair, but that only drew a crooked smile from Roald.


	6. Reunions

Reunions

The evening he returned to the palace, Roald went to the pages’ wing after dinner to visit with his brothers and his friends among the pages. His first stop was Jasson’s room, which was marked in rather intimidating fashion by a scrawl on its board proclaiming: Jasson’s lair–keep out. Illustrating this commandment was a picture of an unwary intruder being attacked by an obviously angry mage. Undaunted by this prohibition and its accompanying helpful illustration, Roald stepped through Jasson’s door and was immediately greeted by Jasson’s sullen green stare. 

“Just because my door is open doesn’t mean you don’t have to knock,” pointed out Jasson waspishly as he resumed reading a very thick tome Roald knew wasn’t for lessons. “Can’t you read the note on my board?” 

“Not everyone can read as well as you can.” Roald grinned, happy to tease his youngest brother again. It had been too long since he had made a joke at Jasson’s expense. “What are you reading anyway?” 

“A study of slavery in Maren with particular focus on its role in the plantation system.” Jasson tuned a page, his attention clearly more on his book than on his guest. 

“Sounds scintillating.” Roald didn’t even attempt to sound serious instead of sarcastic. 

“Hard to believe you’re the heir to the throne when you’ve rocks rolling around in your head.” Jasson glared over the spine of his book. “The kingdom will fall into shambles once you inherit.” 

“Not at all,” Roald countered calmly. “I’ll simply ask you any questions I happen to have about slavery in Maren since you’re so well-read on the subject.” 

“You’re distracting me from becoming as well-read as I’d like to be on the subject,” muttered Jasson. 

Since Jasson was plainly itching to read in peace, Roald took his leave, continuing down the corridor until he reached Liam’s room. Like Jasson’s door, Liam’s was ajar, though his slate bore only his name without the varnish of any menacing illustrations or orders to keep out. Apparently, Liam relied upon the fierceness of the sword he was swinging to deter potential invaders. 

“Still trying to slice through the walls, Liam?” Roald dodged his brother’s blade as he slipped into Liam’s room. Once a rambunctious Liam had tried to cut through the stones of his chamber in the royal wing, which had resulted in a dull sword and not so much as a dent in the wall he had assaulted. This was an embarrassing memory that Roald was determined to never allow Liam to forget. 

“Pity Lord Imrah hasn’t sliced off your head yet,” retorted Liam, thrusting his blade closer than necessary to Roald’s nose. “I could help him out and start with something small like your nose.”

“If you cut off my nose, I won’t show you some fencing tips I learned from Lord Imrah.” Roald gave his most disarming smile, confident that the promise of fighting advice was the best way to appeal to Liam. 

“Fencing tips?” Liam’s face shone with eagerness under his sweat as Roald had predicted. 

Roald coached Liam in improvements to his technique, footwork, and grip that Lord Imrah had shown him before departing so that Liam could attack his academic assignments with far less vigor than he had displayed toward his swordwork. 

As he headed down the hallway toward his final destination, the room where the study group he had once been a part of met every night, Cleon, who had shot up another couple of inches since Roald had seen him last, caught up to him.

“Good evening, Your Highness.” Cleon clapped Roald on the shoulder. “Going to visit our old friends?” 

“Good to see you again, Cleon.” Roald nodded and hoped that his grin showed that he truly was glad to see Cleon again, and it wasn’t just politeness that required him to say so. “It’ll be good to see our old friends again too. What have you been up to since you left the pages’ wing?” 

He thought that Cleon and his knightmaster had been assigned to border patrols in the north, but didn’t want to look foolish if he forgot the details. Cleon proved his fear of forgetting details unfounded when he replied flippantly, “Lots of sword lessons from Sir Inness and from our enemies across the border. On a balance, I have a slight preference for the sword lessons from Sir Inness.” 

“Sir Inness would be flattered to hear that you slightly prefer his sword lessons to those of our enemies.” Roald chuckled, realizing how much he had missed Cleon’s easygoing manner and wisecracks. Around his friends, he could sometimes forget that he was Crown Prince and could just be Roald. 

“He’d be too flattered.” Cleon laughed. “That’s why we won’t tell him.” 

They had arrived outside the study room door. Composing their faces into seriousness, they asked in unison, no rehearsal required, “Are you ready for the big exams?” 

“We are now that we’ve proof from your utterly unoriginal and uninspired question that inbred trolls can pass the big exams.” Neal scowled at them, and Roald considered that an affectionate welcome from one as sardonic as Neal. 

“In Cleon’s case, that might be an insult to inbred trolls,” snickered Merric. 

“You’ve clearly gotten out of line since I wasn’t around to keep you in your place.” Cleon lunged at Merric, tackling him into a playful wrestling match that earned cheers from the approving audience until Kel, in her no-nonsense fashion, put a halt to it, reminding everyone that the pages had classwork to finish. 

At that point, Merric, cheeks flushed crimson as his flaming hair, unceremoniously ended his match with Cleon, pulled his mathematics assignment out of his satchel, and gazed at Kel with pleading eyes that wouldn’t have been out of place on a forlorn puppy. “Help a fellow solve the impossible for Master Yayin, won’t you, Kel?”

As Kel obligingly leaned over Merric’s mathematics work to guide him through his problems, Cleon and Roald left so as to not be an obstacle to their friends’ punctual completion of their assignments. They would, after all, hate to be the reason why their friends were assigned extra hours polishing weapons in the armory.


	7. Justice and Exemptions

Justice and Exemptions

“Where is Keladry of Mindelan?” Mama asked, and Roald recognized the determinedly clam, unruffled tone she adopted whenever she cared too much but wanted to seem serene. Roald’s parents were in the stands beneath a colorful canopy that filtered the bright rays of sunshine into rainbow streams, watching the beginning of the big exams with Lord Wyldon and Lord Imrah as their guests of honor while Roald offered plates brimming with cheese and fruit, and Zahir ensured nobody’s wine glass was empty. 

“She was at breakfast with the other pages.” Lord Wyldon didn’t sound smug as Roald would have assumed given that Kel’s tardiness meant she would be forced to quit training in disgrace or suffer the ignominy of repeating four long, hard years as a page. Glancing at his steely training master, Roald saw no trace of triumph in his expression. There might even have been a hint of concern or compassion in his stern, dark eyes. “She wasn’t ill then, and I can’t imagine what besides illness would keep her from attending the big exams, Your Majesty.” 

“It must be serious to prevent her from showing up for the big exams.” The frown between Mama’s eyes deepened at Lord Wyldon’s words, while next to Roald, Zahir a faint, derisive snort that suggested he believed only death was a grave enough excuse for being late to the big examinations. 

“Captain.” Papa motioned for the captain of the Palace Watch who was on guard with a squad of his men to approach. “Please have your men find Keladry of Mindelan. Start with a search of her room. She might be there. If she isn’t, question the servants. One of them might have seen or heard something.” 

Roald was grateful that his father had dispatched the Watch to locate Kel since Roald couldn’t fathom where she would be if she wasn’t at the big exams with the other fourth-year pages. Roald had intended to support his friends at this crucial juncture of their lives, but he found himself unable to listen to their answers about their studies or to see with any interest their displays of the fighting arts they had mastered as pages. They could have replied to every question with a woefully wrong response and blundered every combat skill, and Roald would have been blind and deaf to their errors. 

His eyes and ears only became functional again when the captain returned with a salute and report. “Keladry of Mindelan appears to have disappeared in search of her maid, who seems to have been abducted. We’re still searching the grounds for Keladry of Mindelan and her maid or clues to their whereabouts.” 

“Thank you, captain. Report back to me when you find Keladry of Mindelan or her maid.” Papa waved his hand in dismissal, and, once the captain had hurried off with a bow to resume the search, Papa’s forehead knotted as he continued, “Keladry of Mindelan’s maid must have been kidnapped to discourage her from attending the big exams.” 

“Whoever committed this crime couldn’t abduct Keladry for fear of causing a civil war”—Mama’s voice was her most coldly contemptuous, and Roald could feel ice forming on his spine—“so they targeted her innocent maid.” 

“Whoever arranged for the kidnapping of her maid was taking a considerable risk that she would care enough about her maid to conduct a search instead of reporting the crime to the Watch and attending the big exams.” Lord Imrah seemed more focused on staring into his wine than drinking it. 

Roald, forgetting that squires were supposed to be as unobtrusive as possible when serving food, opened his mouth to insist that anyone with even a passing familiarity with Kel would know how deeply devoted to her maid she was, but before he could speak, Lord Wyldon commented, heavy as stone, “I told Mindelan, as I do all pages who take personal servants, that her maid was her responsibility. I made it clear to her that if her maid ran away or was otherwise disobedient, it was her duty, not the Watch’s, to discipline her servant.” 

“An important lesson for young nobles to learn.” Papa was pinching the bridge of his nose, a sure sign of strain. 

“Indeed, sire.” Lord Wyldon inclined his head. “I didn’t mean for my words to apply to cases of kidnapping, but I can’t fault Mindelan for the broad interpretation of my instruction.” 

“Regardless of what you said, my lord, she would have searched for her maid because she takes her duties to protect anyone smaller than her very seriously,” Roald put in quietly but with what he hoped was enough firmness to emphasize the fairness of the girl who might have been the noblest person he had ever met. 

“It’s exactly the harebrained heroics she’d engage in, sir,” added Zahir tartly, his face so inscrutable Roald couldn’t discern whether Zahir intended to support him or merely take advantage of the opportunity to insult Keladry of Mindelan. 

“In light of her heroism, however harebrained”—Papa seized control over the conversation again as he fixed his gaze on Lord Wyldon—“perhaps Duke Turomot might be persuaded to permit Keladry of Mindelan to undergo the big examinations at a later date provided the training master requested such an exemption on her behalf.” 

“Under the circumstances, such an exemption would only be just.” Lord Wyldon nodded and rose briskly. “I’ll speak to His Grace at once to seek such an exception for Mindelan if Your Majesties would excuse me…” 

Lord Wyldon vanished to appeal to Duke Turomot on Kel’s behalf—an occurrence so impossible Roald could never have invented it in even his wildest dreams—and when he left, Mama smiled slightly at Papa in approval. “A stroke of genius of you to send Lord Wyldon to reason with Duke Turomot. His Grace will be less disposed to answer a respected fellow conservative with a hundred documents of prohibitive precedent.” 

“My genius always comes in strokes.” Papa’s dry reply was the last part of the discussion Roald heard as he gathered dishes to carry to the kitchens. Joining him with wine glasses, Zahir remarked in an undertone that whispered of secrets with the power to destroy kingdoms, “I suspect Joren might have kidnapped Mindelan’s maid.” 

“You should share that suspicion with my father, not me.” Roald gaped at Zahir not because the idea that Joren might abduct Kel’s maid was so beyond the realm of possibility but because it should have been. 

“I don’t have anything more than a suspicion.” Zahir shook his head. “I won’t waste my king’s time with my suspicion, but what your knightmaster said about whoever kidnapped Mindelan’s maid taking a risk that she would care enough to search for her maid made me realize that only those of us who had been in the pages’ wing with Mindelan would’ve known how devoted she was to her servant.” 

“That information could be obtained from anyone in the pages’ wing by someone else who plotted against her. That’s hardly evidence to prove Joren was behind the kidnapping.” Roald was resolved to be fair and didn’t want to believe that Joren might have grown from a bully to an abductor of maids. 

“I know. That’s why I called it suspicion, not proof.” Zahir shot him a smoldering glare. “That’s also why I won’t share my suspicion with your father. He’ll also want to make such a quick leap from suspicion to proof.” 

“You believe my father and I are unjust?” Roald cocked his head. Injustice was rarely an offense of which he with his diligent diplomacy found himself accused. 

“Not unjust, Your Highness. Merely overzealous in enforcing your limited conceptions of justice.” Zahir’s enigmatic response only muddied the waters further for Roald, who though Zahir would always be a mystery to him no matter how many years he knew the other boy.


	8. The Appearance of Good

The Appearance of Good

“The guards found your friend,” Lord Imrah pointed out softly as Roald searched through his knightmaster’s cedar wardrobe for breeches to match the green doublet Lord Imrah would wear to dine with Roald’s parents that evening. “You needn’t look so troubled, squire.” 

“Whoever kidnapped Kel’s maid behaved in such a cowardly, dishonorable fashion that I can’t help but be troubled, my lord.” Roald rifled through several breeches without noticing the rainbow hues of their rich fabrics. “The person who arranged the abduction must have intended to trap Kel between the rock of missing the exams and the hard place of abandoning her maid, disgracing herself either way.” 

“The men who kidnapped the maid will be interrogated, and they will sing like birds under harsh questioning.” Lord Imrah clasped Roald’s shoulder. “The one who orchestrated this will be apprehended and brought to trial.” 

“Yes.” Roald bit his lip. “I’ve just been thinking about what I would’ve done in Kel’s position, sir.” 

“You wouldn’t have been in her position,” observed Lord Imrah dryly. “Nobody would dare abduct a servant of the Crown Prince.” 

“I realize that, my lord.” Roald couldn’t prevent a trace of impatience from creeping into his tone because he was a child of court who had understood that since he could walk. “I’m speaking hypothetically. If a servant of mine were kidnapped on the day of the big exams, I wouldn’t have searched for my servant. I would’ve ordered the Palace Watch to do it while I attended the big exams.” 

“You have a duty to your people and your country to be on time for the big exams.” Lord Imrah’s hand squeezed his shoulder in reassurance. “That duty outweighs your obligation to your servant, which you would’ve fulfilled by dispatching the Palace Watch to find your servant.” 

“Yes, sir.” Roald ducked his head. Those justifications which he would have given himself sounded so hollow in the ears of his self-doubt. “I just worry that my focus would be on appearances—on seeming good rather than on the substance of being good.” 

“Only a truly good person would worry about such a thing, lad.” Lord Imrah’s words should have been a comfort to Roald but they couldn’t chase away Roald’s frown. 

“I don’t worry enough about the single, small people.” Roald shook his head, reproaching himself. “I’m more concerned with the law, the delicacies of diplomacies, and the politics involved in the smooth governance of the country as a whole. My friend worries about rescuing the single, small people forgotten by the law, diplomacy, and politics.” 

“You’re a prince.” Lord Imrah patted his shoulder. “Your friend seems determined to be a hero. Princes must consider politics, behave diplomatically, and conduct themselves with reference to the law. Heroes might be oblivious to politics, ignore diplomacy, and bend the law to suit their morals. That is the difference between heroes and princes, but the world needs princes as much as it does heroes.” 

Heroes had always been what Roald dreamed of being in the nursery more than he ever had being the king he had always been born to be. Roald was tempted to say that sometimes he wished he could ignore politics and diplomacy, but to admit to even a fleeting desire to abdicate his responsibilities to his realm would have been unfathomably disgraceful, so instead he asked, holding up two pairs of breeches for his knightmaster’s inspection, “Brown or black breeches for tonight, my lord?” 

“Brown would be a warmer hue.” Lord Imrah gestured at the earth-colored breeches in Roald’s right hand. “I’ll wear those, thank you.” 

Roald hung the black breeches back in the wardrobe and laid out the brown ones for his knightmaster before disappearing with a bow into his own chamber to change for dinner with his parents. 

Dining with his parents, Roald forced himself to do something he rarely did since he mostly regarded it as taking advantage of his station: request a favor of his mother and father. Swallowing his nerves along with his venison, he offered his appeal as formally as if he were a petitioner in his parents’ court. “Would Your Majesties consider attending the trial of whoever arranged the kidnapping of Keladry of Mindelan’s maid to convey the Crown’s displeasure displeasure with such a craven, ignoble act?” 

As a rule, Roald committed himself to being as neutral—as fair—as possible but he felt that whoever had plotted against Kel deserved the sharp reminder that she had a friend in a high place who would advocate on her behalf when he deemed it necessary. 

“Of course we’ll attend.” Mama shot Papa a glance that could only be described as meaningful. “We want to show our support for female warriors in general and Keladry of Mindelan in particular.” 

“We also must demonstrate the strength of our disapproval with the inference with the justice the big exams are designed to embody.” Papa’s eyes were the chilling blue of a winter ocean, and Roald thought with awe how that commanding, resolute gaze had destroyed evil mages, cracked enemy emperors, and stared down monsters. “Whoever abducted Keladry of Mindelan’s maid will regret it. The Crown will do all in our power to ensure that, son.”

“Thank you.” Roald inclined his head. His gratitude to his shock was accompanied by a fierce yearning to see whoever had arranged the kidnapping brought to court. He told himself that was only a hunger for justice but feared it might instead be a craving for vengeance that burned through his hot Conte blood. Justice might be no more than the good appearance that a prince put on revenge, but there were, it turned out, truths about himself and justice that he didn’t want to learn.


End file.
